


res ipsa loquitur

by oddishly



Series: res ipsa loquitur [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 11:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: They're living together and it's fine. They're not freaking out.





	res ipsa loquitur

The first thing is the sunshine flooding in through the window, the curtains about as thin as toilet paper and just as good at keeping the daylight out. The second is Merlin, somewhere off to the side, saying, "Don't freak out."

Arthur opens his eyes. Merlin is crouched over a heap of clothes in the corner, one hand on the ground, the other propping his chin up to look over his shoulder at Arthur. He looks away when Arthur squints at him, locating a pair of pyjama bottoms and standing up to tug them on over his boxers.

Merlin's got one hand on the door when Arthur clears his throat and lifts himself up onto an elbow. "Are you? Freaking out?" 

"No," says Merlin. His t-shirt is on backwards. "Got to move my car," he gestures at the wall separating them from the next-door neighbour, "I parked it in her spot."

The door closes behind him. Arthur turns the pillow over and turns his face into it, saving all the rest for later.

 

 

The next time he wakes up, it's to the Antiques Roadshow theme tune drifting in through the wall Merlin shares with the living room.

Arthur groans and rolls out of bed.

Merlin is laid out along the sofa in tragic repose, a bag of frozen peas draped across his forehead and Arthur's quilt bunched up around him. Arthur eyes him, wondering if he should be trying to steal a look at his cock under the blanket or his non-existent biceps or something, then says, " _Mer_ lin," and waits until Merlin looks up to grimace at the television. "It's Sunday, for Christ's sake."

"You were in my bed," says Merlin after a minute. He shuts his eyes again. "Nowhere else for me to go."

"Mine?" Arthur demands, bypassing the horribly awkward alternative option. "It's dark, it's cool, it comes with its own quilt?" He crosses the room just to rumple it. "You'd have had the bed all to yourself, fallen back asleep in about half a second."

"Oh, yeah. Whoops."

Arthur grits his teeth. He shoves at Merlin's feet, taking their place on the sofa and ignoring Merlin's noisy silence. “I hate this program.”

“That’s why I’m watching it.”

“Did I tell you Morgana used to make me play pretend after school with all the crap she dug up in--”

“--the loft, yeah,” says Merlin without looking, “my mum watches it, too.”

Arthur glowers at the screen. The presenter is examining some horrible musical instrument in Orkney, talking with the same nasal Northern accent that Morgana spent three years failing to imitate. Returning to it is mildly traumatic.

He looks back. Merlin isn’t looking at him, he’s got some sort of hungover scowl going on but his cheeks are pink, and Arthur isn’t desperate to suck him off or anything but he wants...something.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He stands up instead. “Go and have a shower.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Lancelot’s thing is soon,” says Arthur, pushing the thought of more alcohol away--christ--then says, “you reek,” over Merlin’s groan, waiting for him to sit up. 

Merlin’s face is rumpled, bearing all the signs of a night spent not sleeping.

Arthur looks away. “Want a bacon sandwich?”

“Yes, please,” says Merlin, also not looking, rescuing them both.

 

 

They get through the day on their bacon sandwiches and more TV and more not talking about it, and then it’s time for the actual weekend event and they still haven’t gone near any kind of conversation that involves them making out against the fridge last night. 

“Merlin’s parking,” says Arthur as he walks up to the others, leaving off the 23 minutes of still-haven’t-talked-about-it in the car. “He’ll meet us inside.”

“Well, then!” says Gwaine brightly. “Shall we?” He shuffles the group towards the entrance to the club, collecting stragglers in loud and displeased tones.

Lancelot’s wedding is less than a week away, which is the one saving grace of the evening. Regardless, Arthur sighs.

“Oh, grow a pair,” murmurs Percival. “I’m sure you can get through one dance.”

“Did I ask you?” says Arthur, because he’s entirely uncertain that he can. He pushes his hands down deeper into his pockets. “Let’s go, then, come on.”

They leave their coats on their way in and follow the hostess to a table. Arthur catches himself waiting, glancing at the door once too often, and gives himself a shake. There’s nothing to be worried about. Nothing has changed, really.

“Sorry for taking ages,” says Merlin brightly in his ear, and Arthur jumps. Merlin raises his eyebrows at him then turns to Lancelot. His smile widens. “Ready?”

“To marry Gwen?”

“No, you great sappy killjoy. For tonight.”

“As long as I can still marry her after it,” says Lancelot firmly, “then, yeah. Born ready.” He looks at the empty dancefloor. “Are you?”

 

 

Some drinks later, Lancelot is still upright, and so is Arthur, frustratingly, and Merlin is talking to a girl at the bar. 

She’s pretty. Arthur’s fingers twitch. He’s actually a little bit proud, which is confusing, all things considered.

He turns. “You think we can get Lancelot to ask Gwaine to be a flower girl?”

Percival peers across at Lancelot. “I think that’s still his first drink,” he says in response, “and I think it’s water.”

Arthur frowns. That’s not what was supposed to happen on Lancelot’s stag night. He tries not to question his own role in that, trying to work out how distracted he’s been by the whole Merlin thing. Maybe Percival knows. Maybe Lancelot does.

Arthur jumps to his feet. “Elyan is a traitor,” he declares, and leads the way to the bar.

Merlin takes a long time to notice him, and not in the way Arthur wants him to.

“Arthur!” he cries, all drunk normal affection and zero your-arse-has-turned-me. “This is Freya.”

“Pleasure,” says Arthur, staring down his enemy, prettier up close and even more dark-eyed, then, “how drunk are you, Merlin?”

“The right amount,” says Merlin, cheerfully grabbing hold of Arthur, “tomorrow’s going to be a bit shit but Monday will be fine. Gwaine’s going to feel even worse.” 

He turns to Percival, fingers warm around Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur swallows. He jumps when Freya smiles at him. “Merlin says you two live together.”

“Yeah--for my sins.”

“Not the way he put it,” she says. “He’s already told me about your long showers and using his radiator to dry your pants.”

Arthur is wholly underprepared for a conversation about him and Merlin. He coughs. “Well--”

“I’m joking,” says Freya, eyes twinkling, and looks at Percival. “So you must be--”

“Not drunk enough,” says Percival, and grins when Merlin reappears with the means to change his answer.

Merlin’s fingers brush Arthur’s as he hands over his tequila, and Arthur is abruptly thrown back to the night before, palms pressed together, holding Merlin up against the wall with his tongue on his collarbone. God help him. 

The lime still sweet in his mouth, Arthur digs his phone out of his pocket and taps out, _I did something I shouldn’t have._

 _Whatever it is, don’t tell father, he’s still pissed about you dropping out_ comes Morgana’s immediate response. _What happened?_

Arthur looks at Merlin again. He’s pointing at the girl’s drink and laughing, eyes huge and mouth wide, still standing too close to Arthur to disregard, if you knew what had happened last night. And if you were Arthur, feeling a lot of things that didn’t really clarify anything, shivering up and down his skin where Merlin is touching him.

Merlin looks at him, smiling bright and a little something else, pressing his elbow against Arthur’s arm like they weren’t both officially, avowedly straight before this.

 _Never mind_ , he replies. Pressing back.

 

 

 

He’s the one who gets to take Merlin home. Or rather, Merlin steers him to the bus stop at the end of the night, leaving a happy, swaying Lancelot with the rest of the guys.

“You know, if you wanted to go home with her--” Arthur starts saying, bravely, and stops when Merlin catches hold of his wrist. 

The bus is here, headlights bright and fractured in the late evening drizzle. Arthur licks the wet off his lips.

“Come on,” says Merlin, tugging him on board like he hadn’t even heard.

“Anyway,” Arthur says, leaning against the pole by the accessible seats at the front, and then finds it remarkably difficult to go on. “As I was saying-”

“As you were saying, what?”

Arthur decides to take refuge in righteousness. “You know what.”

Merlin pauses while more people get on the bus, filing past them with fish and chips and kebabs in hand. Then he says, “You woke up in my bed. That’s never happened before.”

“It has, actually, last--that’s not the point, Merlin, the point is before the waking up, where--we--”

“--yeah,” says Merlin.

They blink at each other. The light from a long line of streetlamps is striking Merlin’s face at exactly the wrong angle as they drive past and he shifts to avoid it.

The bus is full to bursting, and Arthur has to lean against the pole to make sure he isn’t sharing this conversation with the drunken entirety of their audience. He can’t take his eyes off Merlin and doesn’t know how to parse the feeling but really doesn’t want to, either.

“And,” says Merlin, just as Arthur has decided to give up on it, “this morning.”

“Nothing happened this morning.”

“Something could have.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a moment. He looks at Arthur, mouth red, dark shadows under his eyes. “Do you?”

Arthur thinks. Merlin’s cock heavy in Arthur’s mouth, Arthur held face-down in the mattress while Merlin fucked him. Loudly. Merlin already knows all that. “What’s to talk about?”

Merlin’s mouth quirks.

 

 

Once they get home, grumbling about who has to locate their key to get inside but maybe, Arthur thinks, for show more than anything, because Merlin’s mouth is on his neck the whole way up the lift to the sixth floor--

“Didn’t think you liked guys,” manages Merlin as Arthur pushes him against their door, trying to get the key in without lifting his head to look.

“I don’t,” says Arthur, mouthing down his chest, button after open button. “Neither do you.”

Merlin makes a noise that sounds like a yes and a no all at the same time, fumbling behind him as Arthur manages to get the key in the lock. Arthur’s heart feels unsteady, picking up with every new inch of Merlin’s chest, every rough breath Arthur draws out of him.

They fight for the doorknob and twist it together, Arthur’s palm and Merlin’s fingers doing all the work, and stumble inside. Merlin’s back hits the wall and he groans, then yanks on Arthur’s arm to switch places. Arthur kicks the door shut behind them, fingers tight in the curls at the base of Merlin’s neck, and loses his breath at the first touch of Merlin’s mouth along his jaw.

“Could have fooled me,” says Merlin, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s. He slides his hand down Arthur’s heaving chest, laughing a bit. “I dunno what the fuck I’m doing. I’m just--really--” 

Arthur lets himself buck into Merlin’s sudden, tight grip on him, drawing the two of them closer together. “Me, too,” he says, his fingers on Merlin’s arm, opening the fingers of his other hand on his neck, and ducks back in, pressing their mouths together. Proving it.


End file.
